We returned to the den as night fell. The pack dispersed: warriors to their posts, Lucian to Lyra's care for feeding and sleep. And Ronan... Ronan followed me to our quarters. Silent. Tense. The coldness between us had shifted into something else during the walk home. Something that felt like a storm building.
The den's corridors were carved from ancient stone, smoothed by generations of wolves brushing against the walls. Torches flickered in iron sconces, casting dancing shadows that made the wolf carvings seem alive. The air was thick with pack scent: earth and pine and the musk of many bodies living in close quarters. From deeper in the warren came the sounds of evening: pups yipping in play, warriors laughing over their meal, the rhythmic scrape of weapons being sharpened for tomorrow's patrol.
